Castle Garden

by Bill Albert

  “And you, old man, should I believe all I read about you in the newspapers?”

  “Of course you should! I mean, if you’ve been reading the right newspapers. Ha! No apologies, my friend. None at all. I am what I am. Always have been! Always will be! I trade on that.”

  “Poisonings? Queen Victoria? Trade on that, do you, old man?”

  A few months before, Buffalo Bill had finally filed to divorce Lulu. He swore that she had tried to poison him, that she was insanely jealous because he had been giving what she considered to be unduly familiar attention to the British queen and a number of other somewhat less prominent women. His petition was laughed clean out of court. The laughter had echoed around the country. He was not accustomed to be mocked in such an undignified manner. The experience was still hurting.

  “Sir!” exclaimed a shocked Buffalo Bill. “A man’s family life is his own private affair. A gentleman would respect that! If I was a few years younger I would be asking you to step outside and give me satisfaction!”

  The saloon noise was sliced off like a piece of cold meat. It would have been the gunfight of the century, maybe of all time. But it never happened. Both men, even with all the whisky they had taken on board, had too much good sense for that. Bill, seeing he’d overplayed his hand, backed down quickly.

  “Sure, Mr. Cody,” Bill said, looking shamefaced embarrassed, something he rarely looked. “Must be this rotgut whisky slipping through. You’re right. I’ve got no call to be talking like that. Please accept my apologies, one Westerner to another. Straight up!”

  “Accepted, sir!” proclaimed the Colonel, who was not a man to bear a grudge any longer than could be helped.

  The two men shook hands and continued drinking. After they’d traded those first few sparring punches, the talk got better humored and more casual, like with normal people. Soon after they adjourned to a private room so as not to be pestered, being as both of them has a public which is forever treating them like they are not normal people.

  The evening ended with a friendly argument over which was the best parlor house in Denver. Buffalo Bill contended there never had been or would be one to beat Jennie Roger’s House of Mirrors, while Big Bill swore by Mattie Silk’s. It was impossible to resolve because Jennie had left Denver a few years before. In the end they agreed to adjourn to Market Street to put their differences to the test.

  “How old would you be now?” Buffalo Bill asked me.

  Nineteen, I lied.

  “That’s plenty old enough I reckon,” he said. “What do you think to that, Mr. Haywood.”

  Big Bill surveyed me up and down with his good eye.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Cody, plenty old enough. Have you ever, Herbert, old son, been, as they say, with a woman, that is if you don’t mind me asking you something personal like that?”

  I did mind.

  “Professional or otherwise,” put in Buffalo Bill smiling broadly.

  I denied all knowledge.

  “Well, then,” the older man declared. “You know what they say, don’t you? Christmas comes but once a year!”

  “Indeed, that’s exactly what they say,” agreed Big Bill.

  Those two upright Westerners laughed until the tears rolled down their drink-flushed Western cheeks.

  The rest of the night I spent being entertained by Dolly Parrot.

  Two days later I left for the Idaho State Penitentiary by way of Caldwell.

  27

  McParland pushes the coffee pot across to Siringo, who carefully fills his cup. He holds the pot out to me. I shake my head. I’ve drunk too much of it in the last few hours. My stomach and mouth are sour with black coffee. Could be it’s the story I’ve been telling that’s done the souring.

  They’ve had to call in the guard at least four or five times to take me down the hall to the water closet. It’s the warden’s and it’s spotless clean. White tiles on the floor, white tiles on the wall behind, store-bought toilet paper. Back when I was pretending to be Meyer Liebermann it never occurred to me there was any other kind of toilet paper. The guard scolded at me, all stern and meaning it, that if I got anything on the floor or on the seat he’d make sure I’d regret it to my last dying day. Dying day! I damn near choked on my gaspy laugh. Once I was inside, the door opened a slit so he could make sure I didn’t escape, although there was no way to escape except maybe down through the bowl. I couldn’t hold in that laugh, which meant I was shaking too much not to sprinkle the warden’s tiles and his well-polished seat. I didn’t clean it up either. I felt good about that. It was my one small victory in a day overrun with defeats.

  It’s almost done now. My full confession. My true story. A stack of written-on papers piled up neatly in front of McParland. As each page has been handed to him he’s read through it and then prodded at me for more details. A name, a date, a place, always some other piece needed to fit into his puzzle.

  I push my chair back from the table. I stretch out my arms, wiggle the fingers of my writing hand to get some life back. Readying for the grand finale.

  Harry Orchard. He’s got to be the most terrible, black-hearted assassin who’s ever walked the West. Deadlier than Billy the Kid, more ruthless than Dave Rudabaugh or Black Jack Ketchum, hungrier and more bloodthirsty than Alferd Packer. Too bad even for the worst of the Dimes. And worse than him, morally worse, are Bill Haywood, Charlie Moyer, and George Pettibone, who sent him out on those dastardly missions of death. The murderous Inner Circle of the Western Federation of Miners. A story of vengeance, bloodshed, callousness, and treachery almost beyond belief. But true. Every blessed word of it. I can swear to that. I am swearing to it.

  Harry was their chief paid-for killer. After his Vindicator bomb, his attempts to gun down Governor Peabody, after his blasting of Lyte Gregory with a sawn-off in Denver and the job he did at the Independence depot, they sent him to Wyoming to find the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. Haywood wanted the gang to kidnap Charles McNeill, manager of the smelter in Colorado Springs and hold him for a ransom, enough to pay off the cost of the strikes. No one was there at Hole in the Wall. I was in Bill Haywood’s office when he told Orchard to go to San Francisco to put Fred Bradley out of the way. Bradley had managed the Bunker Hill and Sullivan in 1899 and Haywood said he wanted to show everyone how the Federation never forgot its enemies. How no one who ever crossed them was going to feel safe in their beds or be able to walk down the street without looking over their shoulder. That’s right, he paid Orchard and Adams to kill Judge Gabbert. Another judge name of Goddard. Mr. Frank Hearn, yes, and Mr. David Moffat too and General Sherman Bell. There must have been others but I can’t remember their names. Used delayed trip bombs mostly, just like you say. All of it is just like you say.

  Just like McParland said. Every word. The old man is now smiling almost contented at me, but through that smile I can still hear Bill Haywood clear as daylight.

  “When a detective dies, Herbert, he goes so low that he needs a ladder to climb up into Hell. And he’s not welcome there either. When old Nick sees him coming he says to his imps, ‘Get a bucket of pitch and a load of sulfur, give it to that fellow and put him outside. Let him start a Hell of his own. We don’t want him in there causing us trouble.’”

  Amen.

  “A terrible lot of killing, Abraham,” says McParland. “And I believe, like you say, that you didn’t have anything to do with them. A messenger boy listening in. We can see that now you’ve said how it was, can’t we Charlie? But not always a messenger boy. Huh? Not always. Caldwell was different, wasn’t it? You’d graduated by then, hadn’t you? No? Come on now, son. All of this here,” he lifts the stack of papers, “is not going to do you any good with the hangman if you don’t give us the truth on Steunenberg. That’s what we’re here for, the rest of it only sets out the table, so to speak.”

  “You haven’t told us why you were in Caldwell,” Siringo reminds me. “Little-bit
ty place like that and you and Harry Orchard there together?”

  “And Jack Simpkins,” adds McParland. “Let’s not forget him. That’s three Federation men in one small town in Idaho. What should we believe you were all doing there?”

  Probably what they are believing. It makes sense. For their different reasons both Harry and Jack hated Steunenberg enough to want to kill him. Jack for what happened in the Kellogg bullpen, Harry for his fancy of missing out on the Hercules jackpot and his other fancy of making a jackpot from Steunenberg’s death. That’s why I was there in Caldwell.

  Bill Haywood had asked me to go. He’d heard from Pettibone and from Moyer that Harry had been seen in Caldwell. It didn’t take much for him to work out why he might be there.

  “One or two small jobs he does for us and the man thinks we own him,” Bill said angrily. “Or maybe he thinks he owns us. George’s good friend! George is too easy by half with his friends. Should have spotted him from the first. I knew . . . Who’s he really working for, Charlie? You tell me that.”

  “Why you looking at me for?” Moyer snapped back. “Who was it told you in the first place that the crazy bastard was out in Caldwell? When I heard about that from Simpkins I got out of Silver City as fast as I could.”

  “Maybe you should have gone over and pulled him out. More killings written down to us is not going to do the Federation a whole lot of good.”

  “You think you can do better, Haywood, you go ahead and do it. I reckon you believe it’s you, not me, who’s president of this damn union!”

  Bill set his jaw. He looked out the window. It was snowing, big wet flakes that swayed from side to side as they fell through the air like slow leaves.

  Moyer got up and stomped out of the room. Ever since he’d been released from Telluride jail he’d been like that with Bill.

  “Can’t send a letter,” Bill said, swiveling his chair to face me. “Not sure exactly where he is. Besides, letters get lost or picked up by the wrong people and you don’t have to reply to a letter. No, I want you to go for me, Herbert. Find Harry Orchard and say or do whatever it takes to get him out of there before he does anything crazy. You tell him if he doesn’t he’ll have to deal with me personally. Got that? And if I deal with him he’d better have bought some of his own insurance.”

  “So,” McParland says, pulling me back to right now. “Haywood gave you money to pay Orchard for the Steunenberg murder? How much?”

  Four hundred dollars.

  “Did he say why he wanted the killing done?”

  The Coeur d’Alenes. The Federation never forgets.

  It’s what the Irishman needs. It’s what I need.

  “It’s the last thing we need just now,” Bill says. “You be sure to tell the dumb mug that. The very last thing.”

  I pour myself another cup of McParland’s coffee.

  28

  It was snowing heavily when I arrived in Caldwell on Saturday, the 30th of December. Not the soft snow I’d left in Denver but round, pelting nuggets that attacked the windows and clanked against the roof of the train. I hadn’t expected to be met there but I was.

  “Hyman!”

  “Herbert!”

  Standing on the station platform, wrapped in fur coats and holding hand muffs, were my Mrs. Blanchard and my Rebecca Smith, each sporting the blue ribbon of temperance. They exchanged questioning looks. Before the looks found the necessary words, Mrs. Blanchard was embraced by a stocky, gray-haired lady who pushed roughly past me.

  “Oh Agnes,” she said warmly, “it is so very good to see you. How well you look.”

  She did too. Like the first time I saw her at the Haywoods’. Shining, serene, and unreasonably lovely. She had apparently recovered from my resistance to her message of perfection.

  I was once again struck dumber than I am by the assurance of her beauty. It was a beauty so immaculate that it defied itself. Some people might find it too perfect, but it was her effortless containment of its power that aroused me so much. I don’t honestly know why. My romantic emotions were a painful mystery to me.

  While the introductions were being made, I stood on that cold railroad platform trying to mask the confusion of my desires. The older woman, Mrs. Decker, who also carried temperance blue, lived in Denver. Mrs. Blanchard was her sister-in-law. I later discovered that Mrs. Decker was one of Buffalo Bill’s four sisters.

  “A very important meeting,” Rebecca explained excitedly as I rode with the women in a two-horse carriage into the town. “A regional meeting of the Western Purity League here in Caldwell. These two ladies carry out good works among our frail sisters in Denver.”

  “I would imagine, Miss Smith,” said Mrs. Blanchard coolly, “that Herbert, for all his faults has, thankfully, little knowledge of such sordid, unchristian things.”

  “I should sincerely hope he does not know of such things!” exclaimed Mrs. Decker in a surprisingly gruff voice for such a gentle looking old lady.

  “I’m sure that’s right,” Rebecca agreed hurriedly. “Herbert is . . .”

  “Do you read impure books?” Mrs. Decker asked me sharply, her eyes pinned to mine. “Sentimental novels? Dime romances? Do you frequent saloons or dance halls? Do you engage in loafing, mental unchastity, obscene conversations? Do you eat highly seasoned and stimulating foods? Do you imbibe the Demon Rum?”

  I shook my head, denying everything.

  “Well, make sure you never do. It is a well-known fact, young man, that any of these things can lead an innocent young person astray. They are all staging posts on the road to dissipation, immorality, and indifferent hygienic standards. It is a well-known fact, is it not?”

  “It is,” Mrs. Blanchard agreed solemnly.

  “And we all know where those roads lead in the end, do we not?” Mrs. Decker proclaimed with, I thought, more than a hint of her brother’s arena voice. “Only one place. Eternal Damnation!”

  Rebecca smiled demurely.

  The carriage slid on the ice and came to an uncertain stop in front of the Saratoga Hotel. I thought my luck had changed, for there standing in the snow, lighting a cigar, his hand cupped protectively around a match, was Harry Orchard. I could deliver my message and get straight back on the train for Boise. However, I couldn’t call out to him and had to wait until the ladies alighted. By the time they had, Harry was gone.

  “Herbert Brown,” Rebecca chided. “Just where do you think you’re running off to? You’re not getting away from me so easily this time. No, you certainly are not.”

  She took my arm. Reluctantly, I went with her into the hotel, where I had to endure a stifling and overlong luncheon with a dozen members of the Western Purity League. They were mostly women, but there were also two clergymen. As far as I could tell the League seemed to be against just about every kind of enjoyment there is—dancing, drinking, smoking, gambling, reading novels and, of course, sex, even though that was only spoken of in the most circumlocutious manner. “The ancient evil.” “The fall from grace.” “The crime whose name is best left unspoken.” All of it said with pursed lips as if they were reluctant to get their mouths around something so sour. Mrs. Blanchard remained silent throughout and never once looked at me. I know because I couldn’t stop looking at her.

  After a totally joyless, although against the flow of the sentiment, a sexually exciting meal, Rebecca, whose fingernails were now clear of red paint, cornered me alone and insisted I tell her why I was in Caldwell.

  “Looking for a friend? Isn’t it a very long way to come, Hyman? He must be a good friend indeed. Do I know him, perhaps? Or is it a girl you’ve come all this way to find? I do believe you are blushing! So it is a girl! Hyman Budnitsky! You must tell me her name immediately. I will not allow you to leave until you do. What are your intentions? Honorable? I assume they are anyway. I hope her family knows of your interest, after all you’ve just attended a luncheon with probabl
y the purest people in the whole state of Idaho. Ha! Ha! God, how I want a cigarette! You wait, I’ll be right back.”

  I waited until she’d disappeared up the stairs and then I made for the door. The snow had lightened up to only a swirling powder. I wandered about Caldwell. It wasn’t a very big place and it didn’t take long to check all the saloons and hotels. No Harry Orchard.

  The only place I hadn’t been was the bar of the Saratoga and, of course, that’s where he was. He was coming out as I entered.

  “Not now, boy! Not now!” Harry said, rushing past me and up the stairs two at a time.

  I followed. When I got to the landing there was nobody there. Seeing what I thought was the movement of a door closing I knocked lightly at Number 17. The door opened a cautious crack. It was Mrs. Blanchard. Her eyes widened slightly. I suppose mine did too.

  “Herbert? What is it? You know it isn’t proper for a gentleman, even a young man like yourself, to call like this at a lady’s hotel room. I am surprised at you.”

  She stuck her head out slightly into the hallway to see if anyone else was there.

  “Come in, Herbert. Quickly, if you’re coming.”

  I forgot about Harry. I could always find him later. Bill’s message would have to wait.

  Mrs. Blanchard was wearing a full-length white dressing gown with a row of black buttons from the hem right up to a round Chinese collar. Her long hair trailed down her back in a single yellow braid. She sat stiffly on a straight-backed chair by the open window, refusing to look at me. It was extremely cold in her room. She didn’t ask me to sit down.

  “I don’t know whether I should be pleased to see you again, Herbert. You know that I’ve left the Church? No? Well, I have.”

  She paused, looking disconsolately out at the falling snow.

  “I couldn’t contain perfection any more. Remember what I said to you? ‘We speak to the dumb words of Truth and they answer rejoicing.’ Remember that? And all the rest? Empty, you see. All of it. Completely empty. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I read of Mrs. Eddy’s teachings, I couldn’t regain my faith or my power to heal. I found that I believed only in belief, not in the teachings. And it’s not enough. In the end I had to give up. It was only then that I regained my own health. Does it not seem strange to you? A healer healed by giving up healing.”